– Hmm! grumbled Adam Buenosayres, not convinced by the ease with which Samuel had just knocked down the idol.
– It’s like this, insisted the philosopher. Medicine, too, is an instrument of domination.
And he added with overweening pride:
– Not for nothing has my race abounded in great doctors.
– An imperialist race, Adam insinuated sarcastically.
– And one that conquers the enemy by attacking his weak spot.
– What weak spot?
– The sensuality of his oppressors.
Adam Buenosayres laughed in real amusement:
– For half an hour now, he said, you’ve been inventing dreams of gold and luxury. And all for Haydée Amundsen’s flesh, be it tough or tender!
– Tender! protested Samuel in ecstasy.
Right away he added in a penitential tone:
– I’m the black sheep. Samuel has deserted his tribe.
– Your tribe is no better, Adam rejoined. Your race is disgustingly sensual. You can’t deny it.
The philosopher’s long sigh sounded in the shadows.
– Yes, he admitted, it’s an oriental race. It still has a penchant for luxury. Don’t forget that it has bought and sold all the splendours of the world – precious metals and stones, fabrics, perfumes, slaves, women.
Here he paused, as if about to reveal something confidential.
– I myself, he said at last, despite my Franciscan life and philosophical initiations, can’t break free from the inclination. Of course, it’s an ancestral influence! Sometimes I find myself staring through a shop window, mesmerized by some luxurious trinket.
He interrupted himself again, then finally resolved to confess all:
– When the Chinaman at the drycleaner’s gave me that fantastic kimono, oh boy! – that night, after putting it on, I felt my epidermis would never again tolerate any material but silk. Then again, when Levy the hat manufacturer got married, there was French champagne at the reception. I’d never tried it before. And would you believe it? Once I’d tasted it, I knew without a doubt that from then on life would be unbearable without that wonderful wine. And women! I don’t know why, but I study them, measure them, mentally touch them, as if I had to buy and sell them at so much a pound!
He lapsed into an afflicted silence, and Adam Buenosayres patted him on the shoulder consolingly, even though he was still wondering whether the confession was a product of sincerity, drunkenness, or farce, a mode in which the philosopher so often moved.
– I believe you, he said. That’s why I laughed when you were talking about the sensuality of others.
– And doesn’t it exist? protested Samuel, who never admitted defeat and was already rising from his ashes.
– It exists, Adam admitted. We’re in the time of the body, as you were saying. A felicitous turn of phrase.
– Bah! said Samuel modestly. Those flashes of brilliance happen to me to all the time.
– It exists. And the people of your race have been fostering it very cleverly. Just ask the Elders of Zion!9
The philosopher laughed in the dark:
– Haven’t I been telling you?
– Yes, yes, Adam replied. But their own sensuality makes them fall into the snares they set for the sensuality of others. They invent idols for others, and end up adoring them themselves. Gold, for example, ought to be for them simply a means of domination. And they take it for end in itself!
– Who knows? objected the philosopher, touched to the quick.
– That’s why, concluded Adam, even if they attain certain positions, they’ll never achieve the domination they dream about.
– Who knows? Samuel muttered again. Who knows?
Side by side, the two of them embarked on the stretch of Warnes Street running from Vírgenes to Monte Egmont. From there, Adam had a clear view of the San Bernardo steeple, its clock burning in the night like the eye of a cyclops. Behind the steeple he sensed the presence of the stone figure whose broken hand was outstretched in a gesture of benediction. And, as so many times before, the mere evocation of that image caused him to feel a strange unease, a sense that someone was calling him from on high. That curtains of dense shadow were hanging between Adam and the voice that called him.
– And then, he said at last, there’s the theological reason.
– Which one? Samuel asked acridly.
– The curse of the Crucified One.
Samuel Tesler stopped short, as though he’d suddenly come upon the viscous mass of a reptile. Nevertheless, he dissimulated what he felt, a mixture of surprise, disgust, and fear. As he started to walk again, he laughed shakily.
– You can’t be serious, he said, suggesting that he found the theological argument very funny.
– The Other was the one who was speaking seriously, Adam answered. He predicted the ruin of Jerusalem and the dispersion of your race. Hasn’t it come true?
– It was a ploy on the part of the Roman Empire! thundered Samuel. A political ploy.
– The Empire fell twenty centuries ago, and the curse continues.
Samuel muttered something unintelligible.
– And how long is your famous curse going to last? he then asked, at once ironic, resentful, and conciliatory.
– Until the day when the Jews recognize en masse that they crucified their Messiah, answered Adam. And then . . .
But Samuel didn’t let him finish. Brandishing his fist in the dark, he shouted:
– He wasn’t the Messiah! He was a poor, sentimental madman!
– Apparently, Adam insisted, they had the Messiah in front of their noses and didn’t realize it.
It was futile. The philosopher was no longer listening. He shook his great head back and forth; he broke free from the grip of his friend and from the voice of his enemy. Deaf and blind, Samuel Tesler bellowed:
– He’s not the Messiah! Never!
And the Son of Perdition was already hanging from one arm of the fig tree. Seated at his tribunal, the man in the toga pointed at the man in the purple robe: I find no fault in him, he said as he turned to the multitude. And the multitude stirred restlessly like a tree in the wind: sharp profiles, hooked noses, beady eyes, black or red or white beards, voices like piccolos or horns, everything became agitated and confused amid a strong odour of fish stew. We would not have brought him before you if he were not guilty! shouted the multitude. And the Man in purple spoke not: a circlet of thorns dug into his brow; and blood trickled in big drops down his face, from forehead to honey-coloured beard and beyond, where it merged, purple on purple, with the royal cloak that in mockery had been wrapped round his ribs. The Man looked up at the sky, and the sky knew not whether to cloud over or come plummeting down with all its stars; for in that Man looking skyward, heaven, weeping, recognized the Lord Most High who set his vault upon firm pillars. And the Man turned his eyes to the earth, and the earth felt it was dying of anguish under the meekness of those eyes, for it saw in that Man the Wondrous Lord who had said: Let there be land, and there was dry land. But the multitude cried out (the horn cries, the piccolo cries): Crucify him! And the Son of Perdition was already hanging from an arm of the fig tree. Cold and grave, as though performing a rite ordained for all eternity, the man in the toga addressed the multitude: Shall I crucify your King? And the multitude laughed then (laughter of piccolo, laughter of horn): yellow teeth, ravaged gums, faces resembling birds, jackals, or pigs revealed themselves to the sun in their appalling nakedness. And the multitude cried out again: Crucify him! After which the man in the toga, grave and chill, ordered the sacrifice as if fulfilling a liturgy older than the angels. And the Son of Perdition was already hanging from an arm of the fig tree.10
– So, Adam asked, what idea do you people have of the Messiah?
– A triumphant king, Samuel responded proudly. Conqueror, not conquered!
– An earthly emperor, part soldier and part banker? Adam asked again.
– I’d be satisfied,
the philosopher grumbled, if he revealed to us the mysteries of the Kabbalah.
An admixture of ire, pride, and fatigue was exuding from his entire being:
– Maybe I’m the Messiah, he said.11
And then added, desperately:
– I don’t give a damn! I’m sick of it all!
He booted a trash can out of his way. The container rattled over to the curb of the sidewalk.
– I don’t give a goddam! he said again. Anyway, I’m in my last incarnation.
He stopped short and looked attentively at the door of a house.
– Hey! he exclaimed gleefully. Hey!
The two passers-by had just arrived at what had once been the Balcarce mansion,12 now divided and subdivided into the hundred cells of a gigantic conventillo or tenement.
– What’s up? Adam asked warily.
– Here, Samuel dramatically pronounced as he pointed at the door, live the Three Graces of the barrio. Quite plumply incarnated, let me assure you.
– So what?
– I’m going to serenade them, laughed the philosopher, heading for the door.
Adam tried to hold him back:
– Don’t be a lout!
But Samuel was already at the threshold. Seizing the bronze door knocker, he banged it three times against the door. In the stillness of the night, the three knocks resounded terribly: the hundred dogs of the tenement all started to bark at once. Adam Buenosayres, filled with dread and anger, fled toward the corner of Warnes and Monte Egmont. He run was short, only thirty yards or so to the corner. Once there, he waited for the philosopher, who was close behind him, leaping and farting like a mule.
– You idiot! Adam admonished. We’re back in our own barrio!
– Barrio, schmarrio! swaggered Samuel, still panting.
He was looking around for another door to knock on, intent on repeating his feat. Realizing this, Adam took hold of his shoulders. But Samuel wrenched himself free.
– We’ll take a glass of caña at the gringo’s, he decided as he approached Don Nicola’s cantina. I’ve got a bestial thirst on.
– It’s closed, Adam objected, fervently wishing to be off.
– Either the gringo opens up for us, threatened Samuel, or I’ll tear the place down.
And right then and there he gave the sliding metal screen covering the doorway a ferocious kick. Then Adam lost his patience; he grabbed Samuel by one hand and twisted his wrist.
– Let me go! shouted Samuel, struggling like one of the furies.
But Adam kept on twisting his wrist, and Tesler finally gave up.
– Brother! he howled. Brother Adam!
– Are you going to behave yourself?
– Yes, but let go of my wrist.
– I don’t trust you, Adam answered without letting go.
He loosened his vice-like grip, however, and the two of them, guard and prisoner, set out on the last stretch of their journey. Forty steps later, Samuel tried to rebel again, though with extraordinary meekness:
– After all, he began to say, I’m a free creature.
– But momentarily without judgment, concluded Adam.
– Super flumina Babylonis, Tesler declaimed, sighing.13
Without saying anything more, he began to hum Bach’s Air on the G String. He had a beautiful bass voice, and Adam, in spite of himself, was won over by his prisoner’s song as he contemplated the cloudy sky overhead, the autumnal paradise trees, the storm insects swirling around the streetlights. They arrived at the house. With key in lock, Adam turned to Tesler.
– We must go up the stairs in silence, he said. Complete silence.
– Silent as the grave, Samuel gravely promised.
The stairwell was absolutely dark, and they had to feel their way up. Samuel went first; Adam, behind him, held his lower back to steady him. They were scarcely halfway up when Samuel, judging himself the very effigy of stealth, guffawed his satisfaction:
– How’s that, he asked in a thundering voice. Am I doing okay?
– Shhh! came Adam’s response from the shadows.
The last step brought them into the vestibule, which gave onto the rooms of each of the travellers. Adam entered Samuel’s room, Samuel trailing like a ghost, and switched on a dim little lamp. The philosopher then performed the following gestures: he blinked for an instant in the light like a dazzled owl, and let his sad eyes roam around the room, pausing on the books, the mournful blackboard, the disorderly table of his labours.
– What’s the use! he moaned at last, kicking over a column of greasy volumes.
Next, without the slighest preamble, he flew to the bed and sank into the heap of blankets, dressed just as he was, shoes and all. But Adam Buenosayres wouldn’t allow it. Dragging him out of bed, he stood Samuel up and removed his clothes and shoes, a difficult manoeuvre to which Samuel lent himself with much dignity. Adam got him into the famous kimono and only then let him go to bed.
– I’m thirsty, murmured the philosopher.14
Adam handed him a pitcher of water, which Samuel gulped down avidly, feverishly. Then he fell back upon the pillows. Seeing him now in a restful posture, Adam closed the window, drew the grimy curtain, turned out the light, and made to leave the room. At the doorway, Adam paused to listen: the philosopher was laughing softly, apparently stirring under the covers. Then he gave a long sigh:
– Noumena! he muttered, already between two worlds.15
Adam closed the door.
Philadelphia shall raise her domes and steeples beneath a sky beaming like the face of a child. As the rose among flowers, the goldfinch among birds, gold among metals, thus will reign Philadelphia, city of brothers, among the cities of this world. A pacific and joyous multitude will throng her streets: the blind man’s eyes will open to the light, the naysayer affirm what he formerly denied, the exile set foot on his native land, and the damned at last be free. In Philadelphia the bus conductors will offer a hand to women, help the elderly, stroke the cheeks of children. Men will not push and shove one another, nor leave the elevator door open, nor steal one another’s bottles of milk, nor turn up the radio full blast. The policemen will say, “Good day, sir! How do you do, sir?” And there will be neither detectives, nor moneylenders, nor pimps, nor prostitutes, nor bankers, nor slaughtermen. For Philadelphia will be the city of brothers, and will know the ways of heaven and earth, like the pink-throated doves that one day will nest in her tall towers, in her graceful minarets.
BOOK FIVE
Chapter 1
“Bringing him to such a sorry pass.” “That used to bring him to so sorry a pass.” “That to a pass so sorry . . .”
Adam Buenosayres awakes with that shred of sentence still hounding him like an imbecilic gadfly, as it has done all through his sleep. When his eyes open, he sees the figure of Irma by his side, her industrious hands coming and going over the breakfast tray.
– What time is it? he asks, infinitely discouraged.
– Ten-thirty, answers Irma.
“That to a pass so sorry . . .”
– Is it raining?
– Drizzling.
“And he’d told Irma her eyes were like two mornings together, or maybe even . . .” Enough! He sits up with a sudden urgency. His disoriented eyes pass over the empty room. Irma’s slipped away already? So much the better.
The first idea to become clear in his mind brings a taste of bile: at a given hour on that new day, he recalls, a series of ineluctable actions will have to be performed; his face will have to take its place within a fixed constellation of faces; and his voice will belong to a chorus of voices awaiting his own to rise in turn. Reflecting on this, he becomes aware that he can’t do it today, for in his will there is not a speck of life.
Mouth dry and bitter: yes, of course, last night’s binge. With the greatest economy of gestures, Adam Buenosayres sends a hand over to the tray, pours black coffee into the everyday mug, and slurps it down. Delicious. Then he puts on his old bathrobe, goes to the window,
peers out. A foggy light, the same that fills his room, presses down upon the city, dampens rooftops, makes streets slick, and blurs horizons. It gives the impression of pulverized volcanic dust floating in the air and falling softly on everything. Adam studies the skeletal branches of the paradise trees, now leafless, though still clinging with greedy fingernails to the golden clumps of seed. Imagination. On a clothesline, across the street, hang two wet sheets and some grey underwear, whipping in the wind. And the wind also stirs the rich metallurgy of autumn among the dead leaves, carrying away heaps of gold and bronze. Yes, another metaphor! In the street, men and beasts challenge the fog and are soundlessly devoured by it, for, both inside and out, silence has spread like a tapestry. Good!
Pulling himself out of contemplation and the wild play of images, Adam goes over to his table, fills a broad-bowled pipe with tobacco, and lights up. Fleecy smoke rises to the ceiling: “Glory to the Great Manitou, for he has given humans the delight of oppavoc!” Then he goes back to the bed and gets horizontal: “Better it is to be seated than standing, recumbent than seated, dead than recumbent.” Cheery maxim!
Restored to his pleasant immobility (and immobility is a virtue of God, the unmoved mover), Adam Buenosayres recalls the episodes of the night before and his conduct in each of them. Evoking such a strange multiplicity of gestures, he is amazed. How many postures did he adopt, how many forms did his witching soul assume in the space of a single night! And among so many disguises, the true face of his soul . . . No! Adam resists giving in so soon to the pain of ideas: the light filling his room is too cozy, and the silence brought by the rain too beautiful. Light and silence, in pleasant brotherhood, made possible for him by an inchoate beatitude. Having denied intellect and will, he is left only with the play of memory. When the present no longer suggests anything to us and the future is colourless before our eyes, it is good to turn to the past; yes, to where it is so easy to reconstitute the beautiful, submerged islands of jubilance! A series of dead Adams rise up now from their tombs and say: Do you remember? The pipe, smoked on a nearly empty stomach, produces euphoria, twin of silence and light (“that’s why the dry leaf is sacred”). And the Adams gesticulate, there in the background, saying: Do you remember?
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